Two Saturdays ago I fell into a coma. Most of Saturday I was either talking cobbblers or throwing up.
Mel found me in the bathroom on the Sunday morning and called an Ambulance.
I slept until Wednesday morning. We were meant to have moved into our new flat on the Monday.
My eyes were pointing in different directions.
I couldn't get up, and didn't in general until i had this operation called a shunt. This is an operation where they drain out all of the excess fluid from your brain to your stomach. I can still feel all the tubes in my body.
My right side was completely dead, and I still need a crutch to get me from here to there.
* *
Still... The chap in the bed next to me, seemed to be enjoying the entertainments of a passing aids rapist. Or that's how it sounded. She'd climb on him for a few heaves, then she'd piss all over him and be escorted away from him.
The same happened the following morning. Just before his wife turned up.
He was still wearing his oxygen mask.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Saturday, June 07, 2008
473: How to make yourself a diabetic
HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF A DIABETIC:
1.) Get your doctors to encourage you to eat lots of chocolate and shitty starchy stuff at 7 in the morning.
2.) Take more pills until you can't work any more.
3.) Move house.
4.) Move doctors.
5.) Explain it to them all.
6.) Explain it to all the new lot.
7.) What were you taking again?
8.) Perhaps best take them all pills at once - can't make much more difference surely?
9.) Take up smoking heroin.
10.) Have a kip.
1.) Get your doctors to encourage you to eat lots of chocolate and shitty starchy stuff at 7 in the morning.
2.) Take more pills until you can't work any more.
3.) Move house.
4.) Move doctors.
5.) Explain it to them all.
6.) Explain it to all the new lot.
7.) What were you taking again?
8.) Perhaps best take them all pills at once - can't make much more difference surely?
9.) Take up smoking heroin.
10.) Have a kip.
472: Cab Back From Barcelona
WHAT A CUNT.
Sadly, apart from Claire, wearing wrestling masks, knocking up on King Carlos's door (to the behest of a woman in full army gear) "It was just such a good knocker!), being in an odd interview with her for local telly, and just her general dancing, and Kate and her OCD (understandable) hatred of Emmo sticking her earrings through her nose, and Tanya and Nic's ease with all that shit, it seemed to be an easy week.
So why then, as soon as we get back to Heathrow are we confronted by this cunt in dark glasses. I know there's some stupid rule about how far he can take us, but he starts us off with "D'you get a mini-cab here then?"
"No, we got a plane. Can you take us to Uxbridge?"
It was so wet, you couldn't see out of the windows and he was boasting about the time he had to back in. If I knew it was so important, I'd have directed him to this strange road he'd have to use to get to Hammersmith Broadway called the mother-fucking Uxbridge Road.
"So you're Dad's a cabby is he?"
"Yes."
"How long's he been in the business?"
"A lot longer than you. His nickname's the Rabbi And he doesn't wear dark glasses on a bright day. What's you're nickname?"
"I ain't tellin' ya."
"That's hypocrisy for ya."
"Well I could lose my sight at any time you see?"
"And when was this diagnosed?"
"Two days ago."
I could have told him was a lying bullshitter, but I hoped he might crash into Uxbridge.
"Why are you driving a cab then?"
"You don't know turn-offs from here do ya?"
"I fucking did. You're on Croxley Green now, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I don't know this area so well."
"So all those signs for the Uxbridge Road, you ignored them?"
"I've got 7 minutes to get back in the queue."
"I was gonna tip you just to take us down the Uxbridge Road."
Mel and I went for a Nandos. Best fucking meal we'd had all week.
Sadly, apart from Claire, wearing wrestling masks, knocking up on King Carlos's door (to the behest of a woman in full army gear) "It was just such a good knocker!), being in an odd interview with her for local telly, and just her general dancing, and Kate and her OCD (understandable) hatred of Emmo sticking her earrings through her nose, and Tanya and Nic's ease with all that shit, it seemed to be an easy week.
So why then, as soon as we get back to Heathrow are we confronted by this cunt in dark glasses. I know there's some stupid rule about how far he can take us, but he starts us off with "D'you get a mini-cab here then?"
"No, we got a plane. Can you take us to Uxbridge?"
It was so wet, you couldn't see out of the windows and he was boasting about the time he had to back in. If I knew it was so important, I'd have directed him to this strange road he'd have to use to get to Hammersmith Broadway called the mother-fucking Uxbridge Road.
"So you're Dad's a cabby is he?"
"Yes."
"How long's he been in the business?"
"A lot longer than you. His nickname's the Rabbi And he doesn't wear dark glasses on a bright day. What's you're nickname?"
"I ain't tellin' ya."
"That's hypocrisy for ya."
"Well I could lose my sight at any time you see?"
"And when was this diagnosed?"
"Two days ago."
I could have told him was a lying bullshitter, but I hoped he might crash into Uxbridge.
"Why are you driving a cab then?"
"You don't know turn-offs from here do ya?"
"I fucking did. You're on Croxley Green now, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I don't know this area so well."
"So all those signs for the Uxbridge Road, you ignored them?"
"I've got 7 minutes to get back in the queue."
"I was gonna tip you just to take us down the Uxbridge Road."
Mel and I went for a Nandos. Best fucking meal we'd had all week.
471: Losing my Continents in Barcelona
I'm guessing it was the first night of the festival. I asked this security guy where I could pee. He pointed me across the ground.
By the time I got there, there was piss running out of both sides of shorts. People got out of my way. I felt ashamed and didn't tell anyone.
The second night, I just wanted to see the harbour, so I crawled up and stood in someone else's shit.
The third night, I was trying to run away from Vampire Weekend, fell over and fucked up my knee. Still hung out with the other chaps with knee gaping with blood.
I asked Mel if something was up with my mouth. She said yes, it was very white, especially under the tongue.
I put this down to our joint decision to avoid Red Bull and stick to Gin and Slim line. I should remind you at this point, that I've been binge-eating through the steroids. In fact there was night when Mel where had had a shower over 40 minutes and still had to drag me out of their local Spar.
I think I just bought a messy Magnum and another chocolate bar. The Gin of course, was far stronger than whatever they topped it up with. So I fell asleep in front of the telly covered in chocolate stains.
"You don't look well..."
* *
I spent the next night in a hospital by the harbour. The others came down to wish Mel well, and I discharged myself at 3.a.m. because I didn't want to be sat in the middle of the corridor for the rest of the night when I had a nice place I'd paid for round the corner.
They charged me over a grand, and I can only hope I get it back on insurance - which I'm doubtful about.
Back to the hospital the next day, by which time friends were starting to leave.
"It's diabetes, but if you're going back in two days, there's little we can do."
Which is fair enough. The doctors who spoke their English over there were incredibly kind.
The long and short of it is, if you have jeans to spare...
By the time I got there, there was piss running out of both sides of shorts. People got out of my way. I felt ashamed and didn't tell anyone.
The second night, I just wanted to see the harbour, so I crawled up and stood in someone else's shit.
The third night, I was trying to run away from Vampire Weekend, fell over and fucked up my knee. Still hung out with the other chaps with knee gaping with blood.
I asked Mel if something was up with my mouth. She said yes, it was very white, especially under the tongue.
I put this down to our joint decision to avoid Red Bull and stick to Gin and Slim line. I should remind you at this point, that I've been binge-eating through the steroids. In fact there was night when Mel where had had a shower over 40 minutes and still had to drag me out of their local Spar.
I think I just bought a messy Magnum and another chocolate bar. The Gin of course, was far stronger than whatever they topped it up with. So I fell asleep in front of the telly covered in chocolate stains.
"You don't look well..."
* *
I spent the next night in a hospital by the harbour. The others came down to wish Mel well, and I discharged myself at 3.a.m. because I didn't want to be sat in the middle of the corridor for the rest of the night when I had a nice place I'd paid for round the corner.
They charged me over a grand, and I can only hope I get it back on insurance - which I'm doubtful about.
Back to the hospital the next day, by which time friends were starting to leave.
"It's diabetes, but if you're going back in two days, there's little we can do."
Which is fair enough. The doctors who spoke their English over there were incredibly kind.
The long and short of it is, if you have jeans to spare...
Friday, June 06, 2008
470: Beer Tickets and Nic's Pics
By the end of May, it looked like it was just going to be me and Mrs Monks over to Barcelona for the festival. There ended up being 9 of us over there.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=41635&id=661926473
My chum, Mr. Gay, had warned me about having to queue for beer tokens at Bennacassim, nearby. Now unless, someone's been shot over money for the bar, there's no reason to do this other than to make a giant profit.
Chris was caught short of a few tickets and had a go at this Spanish girl, before some of National Guard or whatever tried to kick him out. Luckily they didn't.
Too many highlights to mention, though I was amused by Chris claiming to be cheerleader for Devo.
Other than the obvious; Devo, Sonics and Shellac, I do have to recommend Edan and Dagha to anyone out there who just likes a good old wacky turntablist show complete with acoustics with noses pinched, and old-fashioned face-offs. Caribou, Boris (I'd love to see them play with Guitar Wolf), Dr. Octagon / Kool Keith - who tried to ring me up instead of Frank to say, "I ain't from Bristol, man" (thanks Claire - point proven), Holy Fuck, Kinski and The Tindersticks did it for me.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=41635&id=661926473
My chum, Mr. Gay, had warned me about having to queue for beer tokens at Bennacassim, nearby. Now unless, someone's been shot over money for the bar, there's no reason to do this other than to make a giant profit.
Chris was caught short of a few tickets and had a go at this Spanish girl, before some of National Guard or whatever tried to kick him out. Luckily they didn't.
Too many highlights to mention, though I was amused by Chris claiming to be cheerleader for Devo.
Other than the obvious; Devo, Sonics and Shellac, I do have to recommend Edan and Dagha to anyone out there who just likes a good old wacky turntablist show complete with acoustics with noses pinched, and old-fashioned face-offs. Caribou, Boris (I'd love to see them play with Guitar Wolf), Dr. Octagon / Kool Keith - who tried to ring me up instead of Frank to say, "I ain't from Bristol, man" (thanks Claire - point proven), Holy Fuck, Kinski and The Tindersticks did it for me.
469: Nosebleed
There were about 9 of us over there in the end (is that right? Mel and me, Nic, Kate, Tanya, Smartee, Frank, Claire and Emmo), which surprised me, because even in April, everyone was feeling too strapped for cash. Fuck me, there were a lot previous relationships among our lot, but all seemed to be, from my short-spectacled eyes at least, a lot that was ignored, got over, or repressed.
Before everyone came over, Mel and I did the Gaudi bus tour - which was impressive. We bypassed a two-hour queue for a lift to the top to get round the back and go straight up with some elderly looking Nips. I'm not sure they knew they had to make their own back down the many, many, many steps to get back down.
It was amazing, in ways I don't have the vocabulary to describe... and you'd be bored by it.
The funniest bit was at Park Guell. We stopped off for snacks and Mel bought some snacks that just couldn't be swallowed.
"How can you eat these Mel? They're imposs
ible to swallow."
"Yeah, you can," then she started to choke.
This was followed by a nosebleed.
I ran to get some tissues.
Blood was running everywhere.
"Don't you want to get to the loo to sort that out Mel?"
"I'm embarrassed."
15 minutes later and we were watching some wankers shoot a video under the Guell.
Oh, and we drove through Barcelona FC, which was pretty cool.
Before everyone came over, Mel and I did the Gaudi bus tour - which was impressive. We bypassed a two-hour queue for a lift to the top to get round the back and go straight up with some elderly looking Nips. I'm not sure they knew they had to make their own back down the many, many, many steps to get back down.
It was amazing, in ways I don't have the vocabulary to describe... and you'd be bored by it.
The funniest bit was at Park Guell. We stopped off for snacks and Mel bought some snacks that just couldn't be swallowed.
"How can you eat these Mel? They're imposs
ible to swallow."
"Yeah, you can," then she started to choke.
This was followed by a nosebleed.
I ran to get some tissues.
Blood was running everywhere.
"Don't you want to get to the loo to sort that out Mel?"
"I'm embarrassed."
15 minutes later and we were watching some wankers shoot a video under the Guell.
Oh, and we drove through Barcelona FC, which was pretty cool.
468: Shitting In Barcelona
"Mel, I really do need a shit, and very quickly."
There was a sudden lack of bars around to run into, apart from this incredibly poncy one.
"Here's my wallet - order what you want, I've got to run."
"Um Serveis?"
"Id," he said, or something like that.
Before I could run in, I'd already dropped two brown mountains on his floor.
I ran in. I was wearing Mel's jeans.
The backs of my legs, the whole trousers, my trainers, had been utterly assaulted. I cleared up what I could.
I heard the bar man shout, "Ohh, no!!!"
When I eventually emerged, he was still mopping up.
"Mate, I'm incontinent. I'll give you forty euros for your trouble."
"Just go."
"Come on Mel, we'd better move on."
"We've only just got here."
"We need to leave."
Back at the hotel, they must have seen or smelt the shit coming from me.
We must have killed that lift.
Mel was forgiving despite our lack of clothes, and kindly ran out to buy me shorts, a T-shirt and some converse. I offered her some money to buy some jeans in recompense.
I phoned reception,"Hablo Ingles?"
"A little..."
"I've had a bit of an accident and would like someone to remove a bag from my room, I'm in 4183"
"No problem."
Half an hour passed, in which I showered and shoved the jeans and trainers into a bag.
I called down again.
"Hi, I've got a bag of shit up here, which I'd like someone to take please."
"I'll be right up."
He saw the bag of shit.
"I can not get rid of this until at least tomorrow morning."
"No, no, no. I want you to destroy it."
"Destroy?"
"Yes please. Burn it, get rid of it. Here's 10 Euro."
He gratefully took the money and left.
I lit up a fag, and sat in my last pair of boxer shorts.
There was a sudden lack of bars around to run into, apart from this incredibly poncy one.
"Here's my wallet - order what you want, I've got to run."
"Um Serveis?"
"Id," he said, or something like that.
Before I could run in, I'd already dropped two brown mountains on his floor.
I ran in. I was wearing Mel's jeans.
The backs of my legs, the whole trousers, my trainers, had been utterly assaulted. I cleared up what I could.
I heard the bar man shout, "Ohh, no!!!"
When I eventually emerged, he was still mopping up.
"Mate, I'm incontinent. I'll give you forty euros for your trouble."
"Just go."
"Come on Mel, we'd better move on."
"We've only just got here."
"We need to leave."
Back at the hotel, they must have seen or smelt the shit coming from me.
We must have killed that lift.
Mel was forgiving despite our lack of clothes, and kindly ran out to buy me shorts, a T-shirt and some converse. I offered her some money to buy some jeans in recompense.
I phoned reception,"Hablo Ingles?"
"A little..."
"I've had a bit of an accident and would like someone to remove a bag from my room, I'm in 4183"
"No problem."
Half an hour passed, in which I showered and shoved the jeans and trainers into a bag.
I called down again.
"Hi, I've got a bag of shit up here, which I'd like someone to take please."
"I'll be right up."
He saw the bag of shit.
"I can not get rid of this until at least tomorrow morning."
"No, no, no. I want you to destroy it."
"Destroy?"
"Yes please. Burn it, get rid of it. Here's 10 Euro."
He gratefully took the money and left.
I lit up a fag, and sat in my last pair of boxer shorts.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
467: Back to Frithville
I'd never been to Foxton's before. As we walked in to their office, there was a mix of Perrier waters, and lots of other shit hanging around under their desks.
A young posh lady named Holly was meant to pick us up from Turnham Green station at 9.30, but when we called she just directed us to the office. She offered us one lovely place in Acton, but it was all fixed up way to nice for Mel and I. It had a nice little balcony overlooking a playground. The others were over-priced and shit.
Anyway, the main point she made was the landlords had the right to kick us out whenever they pleased - so that was a minus.
We did like the place, but decided to doorstop Winkworth on the way back to the Bush, she offered us a place on Loftus Road (yeah, come on Milwall or Cardiff - chuck a brick through my window) and a place on Wood Lane opposite the new shopping centre.
"There's not much noise through here, are these double-glazed."
"That's because they're not building today."
"I guess I don't fancy staring at shopping centre every day."
"No you wouldn't," said, Jeanelle the very honest estate agent, "In fact the landlords can't really get rid of it..."
She said this just as the landlord family walked in.
"We should go."
"I can never get this fucking car to work. It's the same with all the Winkworth cars, they've got these new chips to stop you managing to start the cars."
"Did you say you're taking us to Frithville next?"
"Yep."
"I saw it on your web site. I used to live there - with Winkworth. ...And to be completely honest, we had a tiny bust up when we left, but that shits always gonna happen."
Frithville was perfect, and I wasn't the first to say so. Mel instantly loved it. Great size kitchen, big living room area...
"She grinned at me as if to say, 'This is the one!'"
I could see she also liked the stray guitars and pot tins, but to be honest, it is a gorgeous flat.
"What did you see this morning?"
"Foxtons, but their rates and ideas were a little over-the-odds. And I've have a three-minute walk to work from here."
"Did you know Foxtons are being sued right now?"
"I didn't."
"They're giving away too many privileges to their landlords."
"Interesting."
"Whereas here you'll paying the same rent until the end of the 12 months, and you have an 8 month break clause to just leg it."
"Well, this is the thing, I've been rumoured to get a contract up until March, but I won't know until next week."
"And what about you, Mel?"
"Well I've got savings, but quit last week because of being between properties."
"You both like it?"
"Fuck, yeah."
We got back to the office. This lady was on the phone about Frithville.
"Leave it," said Jeanelle, "You two can put an offer in now, but we close pretty soon, and you can just give us a ring on Monday."
"What are the landlords like?"
"They're professionals. We might have trouble getting that second bed out of there to make your study but there's room in there to put the table in... They're open 9-5 every week."
"So we could meet with them when we move in and go through bills we wouldn't have to be following up from the last lot?"
"Exactly."
"You've worked other places haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I almost trust you."
* * *
We went away and did the Maths. They were a damn site cheaper than Foxtons. Mel realises now that she can't just piss her money away - and I found out today that the BBC are taking me on until next March(!). Mel needs a decent job though, or else I'll be subbing her, which was a struggle living with Martin.
...And yes, there's still that odd question of one of us pulling someone else and bringing them back. But fuck it, they got by in the '60s.
The main thing is that we can look after each other without the guilt of my folks being about.
* * *
Fucking hell though. Busy old week.
We put the bid in on Monday. We celebrated over a pint. But to cut the week short, I've been doing more work at home on the house for the many people coming over - and not doing too much work.
Bit worried about my landlord from Frithville saying, Clayton Who? Don't think he ever knew me - lived in France.
But days like today started much like today, getting to bed at a very late time after helping out and trying to work through the evening. Which I will do again tonight. After this, I'm back to reading and writing on these ideas. I have a boss who is really positive and glad for me to be working in walking distance to work (my current commute is 90 minutes each way in turn).
Tonight Mel is out with her previous landlady, and I'll be amazed if she sleeps. She's got 2 suitcases with her, has to be at Citizen's advice in Uxbridge before 12 when it shuts (and it's only open once a week), and I need to be at the doctor's in Uxbridge around the same time. Then she goes to Natwest to get some sort of confirmation she can pay the rent. Then I've offered her lunch at Nando's, then she's off to try to make it up with her Mum in Amersham.
I was meant to be at a Culture Show party at Hospital tonight, listening to Jim Moir and Nihal, but more importantly catching up with old colleagues. (and maybe a brief apology to Lauren Laverne - another story I've probably told - no biggy)
Anyway, fuck that. I have to get Mel's shit back to mine - send her off to Amersham, then carry on with work.
Thursday - I've got to show my boss this shit, mainly 3 proposals - one of which I haven't even had a book for yet. Still nice drinks in the evening with old colleagues.
...Oh and yes, this is when the relatives start arriving.
I think I should go into work this day and find somewhere quiet.
Saturday - Chris Rock at the millennium monkey place. Staying at Mr. Gay's.
Sunday - the Pensioner's Party - Mum, 60, Dad 65. Gonna be a lotta work. We've got around 100 folk coming down.
Monday - pack for Barcelona.
Can't even remember when we get back, but we have to pitch for these ideas when I get back, and I really want to fucking make them.
16th - move into Frithville - though I can't move in until the 20th.
Which is when Wilson comes down - and I can't get him on the motherfucking phone.
Best get back to reading about Willie Donaldson, Malcolm Hardee and Graham Chapman....
A young posh lady named Holly was meant to pick us up from Turnham Green station at 9.30, but when we called she just directed us to the office. She offered us one lovely place in Acton, but it was all fixed up way to nice for Mel and I. It had a nice little balcony overlooking a playground. The others were over-priced and shit.
Anyway, the main point she made was the landlords had the right to kick us out whenever they pleased - so that was a minus.
We did like the place, but decided to doorstop Winkworth on the way back to the Bush, she offered us a place on Loftus Road (yeah, come on Milwall or Cardiff - chuck a brick through my window) and a place on Wood Lane opposite the new shopping centre.
"There's not much noise through here, are these double-glazed."
"That's because they're not building today."
"I guess I don't fancy staring at shopping centre every day."
"No you wouldn't," said, Jeanelle the very honest estate agent, "In fact the landlords can't really get rid of it..."
She said this just as the landlord family walked in.
"We should go."
"I can never get this fucking car to work. It's the same with all the Winkworth cars, they've got these new chips to stop you managing to start the cars."
"Did you say you're taking us to Frithville next?"
"Yep."
"I saw it on your web site. I used to live there - with Winkworth. ...And to be completely honest, we had a tiny bust up when we left, but that shits always gonna happen."
Frithville was perfect, and I wasn't the first to say so. Mel instantly loved it. Great size kitchen, big living room area...
"She grinned at me as if to say, 'This is the one!'"
I could see she also liked the stray guitars and pot tins, but to be honest, it is a gorgeous flat.
"What did you see this morning?"
"Foxtons, but their rates and ideas were a little over-the-odds. And I've have a three-minute walk to work from here."
"Did you know Foxtons are being sued right now?"
"I didn't."
"They're giving away too many privileges to their landlords."
"Interesting."
"Whereas here you'll paying the same rent until the end of the 12 months, and you have an 8 month break clause to just leg it."
"Well, this is the thing, I've been rumoured to get a contract up until March, but I won't know until next week."
"And what about you, Mel?"
"Well I've got savings, but quit last week because of being between properties."
"You both like it?"
"Fuck, yeah."
We got back to the office. This lady was on the phone about Frithville.
"Leave it," said Jeanelle, "You two can put an offer in now, but we close pretty soon, and you can just give us a ring on Monday."
"What are the landlords like?"
"They're professionals. We might have trouble getting that second bed out of there to make your study but there's room in there to put the table in... They're open 9-5 every week."
"So we could meet with them when we move in and go through bills we wouldn't have to be following up from the last lot?"
"Exactly."
"You've worked other places haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I almost trust you."
* * *
We went away and did the Maths. They were a damn site cheaper than Foxtons. Mel realises now that she can't just piss her money away - and I found out today that the BBC are taking me on until next March(!). Mel needs a decent job though, or else I'll be subbing her, which was a struggle living with Martin.
...And yes, there's still that odd question of one of us pulling someone else and bringing them back. But fuck it, they got by in the '60s.
The main thing is that we can look after each other without the guilt of my folks being about.
* * *
Fucking hell though. Busy old week.
We put the bid in on Monday. We celebrated over a pint. But to cut the week short, I've been doing more work at home on the house for the many people coming over - and not doing too much work.
Bit worried about my landlord from Frithville saying, Clayton Who? Don't think he ever knew me - lived in France.
But days like today started much like today, getting to bed at a very late time after helping out and trying to work through the evening. Which I will do again tonight. After this, I'm back to reading and writing on these ideas. I have a boss who is really positive and glad for me to be working in walking distance to work (my current commute is 90 minutes each way in turn).
Tonight Mel is out with her previous landlady, and I'll be amazed if she sleeps. She's got 2 suitcases with her, has to be at Citizen's advice in Uxbridge before 12 when it shuts (and it's only open once a week), and I need to be at the doctor's in Uxbridge around the same time. Then she goes to Natwest to get some sort of confirmation she can pay the rent. Then I've offered her lunch at Nando's, then she's off to try to make it up with her Mum in Amersham.
I was meant to be at a Culture Show party at Hospital tonight, listening to Jim Moir and Nihal, but more importantly catching up with old colleagues. (and maybe a brief apology to Lauren Laverne - another story I've probably told - no biggy)
Anyway, fuck that. I have to get Mel's shit back to mine - send her off to Amersham, then carry on with work.
Thursday - I've got to show my boss this shit, mainly 3 proposals - one of which I haven't even had a book for yet. Still nice drinks in the evening with old colleagues.
...Oh and yes, this is when the relatives start arriving.
I think I should go into work this day and find somewhere quiet.
Saturday - Chris Rock at the millennium monkey place. Staying at Mr. Gay's.
Sunday - the Pensioner's Party - Mum, 60, Dad 65. Gonna be a lotta work. We've got around 100 folk coming down.
Monday - pack for Barcelona.
Can't even remember when we get back, but we have to pitch for these ideas when I get back, and I really want to fucking make them.
16th - move into Frithville - though I can't move in until the 20th.
Which is when Wilson comes down - and I can't get him on the motherfucking phone.
Best get back to reading about Willie Donaldson, Malcolm Hardee and Graham Chapman....
Friday, May 16, 2008
466: So Here Is The Question...
Tomorrow (or technically today), myself and Mel are looking at flats with Foxtons. I'm also booking appointments with Winkworth, who, in fairness, treated myself and Martin fairly well after a few scraps.
I stupidly forgot to put an advert around the BBC looking for somewhere, as well as various friends and Facebollocks, which I might do now. I can sort that out before we make a decision.
Now of course, this begs many questions:
1.) Why would I move out of my parents home?
- I can't work from there.
- I can't sit and read books at work for what I'm meant to be doing.
- I'm forever tip-toeing around my folks.
- I have no room for a desk.
2.) Why live with Mel when you're not even a couple?
PLUS SIDE:
- She has treated me really well - in and out of hospital and with or without job.
- She has a tiny bit of money to afford herself time to get a decent job.
- She is incredibly affectionate. We also both know what each other are going through. That said, Mel wants to do more care work and hopefully get involved in mental health work.
- We've thought of getting a two-bedroom place or somewhere I could use as a study space, which I sorely need. Music and stuff would come secondary.
- Mel would take care of me. As I would of her.
MINUS SIDE:
- And this is a personal fear - I've always lived with people who can sort things out for me. That includes everything from broadband connections (try getting one for less than 6 months), as well as more important things like Council tax, and all the light-saving/changing buggers. I can't see Mel lending much of a hand. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm an idiot.
- What if one of us pulls? Less likely for me because I have the body of stripey overweight slug, but more likely for her because, well, she ain't a bad looking girl. Would I tell her to kip on the sofa while I listen to her fuck? One of us might even fall in love (mind you that would give one of us more time in bed).
3.) Why you don't both live on your own?
- I can't afford it by myself. I spent last year falling into terrible debt while I couldn't find a job.
- Mel has never lived by herself, and neither have I. I think she'd rather move into a house-share than deal with sole responsibility.
4.) Why Shepherd's Bush or West London?
- I want to walk to work, as I have done for most of this decade. Shepherd's Bush is my real home.
- As for Mel, she wants to live wherever I live, which is possibly stupid, as it is fucking expensive. That said, if she lived round here her expenses wouldn't be much better.
5.) What are the estate agents offering?
- There's two sides to this - new shopping mall vs. credit crunch. The average amount for a two bedroom is £11,00 a month, which is still cheap compared to what myself and Martin were paying a few years ago.
So what should I do?
I stupidly forgot to put an advert around the BBC looking for somewhere, as well as various friends and Facebollocks, which I might do now. I can sort that out before we make a decision.
Now of course, this begs many questions:
1.) Why would I move out of my parents home?
- I can't work from there.
- I can't sit and read books at work for what I'm meant to be doing.
- I'm forever tip-toeing around my folks.
- I have no room for a desk.
2.) Why live with Mel when you're not even a couple?
PLUS SIDE:
- She has treated me really well - in and out of hospital and with or without job.
- She has a tiny bit of money to afford herself time to get a decent job.
- She is incredibly affectionate. We also both know what each other are going through. That said, Mel wants to do more care work and hopefully get involved in mental health work.
- We've thought of getting a two-bedroom place or somewhere I could use as a study space, which I sorely need. Music and stuff would come secondary.
- Mel would take care of me. As I would of her.
MINUS SIDE:
- And this is a personal fear - I've always lived with people who can sort things out for me. That includes everything from broadband connections (try getting one for less than 6 months), as well as more important things like Council tax, and all the light-saving/changing buggers. I can't see Mel lending much of a hand. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm an idiot.
- What if one of us pulls? Less likely for me because I have the body of stripey overweight slug, but more likely for her because, well, she ain't a bad looking girl. Would I tell her to kip on the sofa while I listen to her fuck? One of us might even fall in love (mind you that would give one of us more time in bed).
3.) Why you don't both live on your own?
- I can't afford it by myself. I spent last year falling into terrible debt while I couldn't find a job.
- Mel has never lived by herself, and neither have I. I think she'd rather move into a house-share than deal with sole responsibility.
4.) Why Shepherd's Bush or West London?
- I want to walk to work, as I have done for most of this decade. Shepherd's Bush is my real home.
- As for Mel, she wants to live wherever I live, which is possibly stupid, as it is fucking expensive. That said, if she lived round here her expenses wouldn't be much better.
5.) What are the estate agents offering?
- There's two sides to this - new shopping mall vs. credit crunch. The average amount for a two bedroom is £11,00 a month, which is still cheap compared to what myself and Martin were paying a few years ago.
So what should I do?
Monday, May 12, 2008
465: Charity Shops
Got to bed about 6a.m., Friday morning, knowing that I had an appointment at 9a.m. in Victoria with Capita Occupational Health - the chaps who should be getting me back to work at the BBC.
"Hi, look, my name's Clayton, I had some really bad insomnia last night - it's already nearly nine, I'm only just at my station and I think I'll have to cancel my appointment..."
"Right... I'm afraid I haven't switched my computer on yet. Can I take your number and call you back?"
Bloody hell. I need to get back to work to avoid skipping around my parents all day, and I'm bodging it up already...
Got a call back as I was going through Finchley Road (getting on for 9.30 now, rail-time fans).
"That's fine. He'll see you at 11.15."
"Oh. Oh good."
So by 10a.m., I was in Westminster with time to kill. All the cafes were filled with builders in yellow shirts and hard hats.
I passed a Coroner's Court surrounded by media vegetations with their cameras at the ready. Poor buggers. I've waited with a crew in a press pit before for a thing with Tom Cruise, and that was one of the most boring evenings of my life. Who died?
It must have been on Horseferry Road that I passed a Charity Shop that was called Charity Shop. The front said, "Beware - Wet Paint," and didn't look too accessible.
Problem was, I hadn't showered and was wearing a smelly blue shirt, which made my belly stick out.
I ambled around a bit more thinking, "Oh bugger it, I'll walk to Victoria and waste a fortune on some crap baggy shirt," before thinking, "No. I won't. That place looked open... I'll be fucked if I'm going to spend the next hour in River Island."
Went back to Charity Shop, stepping over tins of paint. You know those old cliches about swinging cats? ...Well, yeah. Tiny place. Old gruff boy who'd lost all his hair and an elderly Irish woman, just in to talk to the gruff chap about her local Parishioner.
"You alright boy?"
I couldn't get to the shirt rack very easily, but luckily there wasn't much on there anyway.
"So, have you sold much dis week?"
"Not a bloody book."
"I'll have this one mate."
I knew it was baggy enough.
"Two quid?"
Two quid? I'd have paid forty for this at a chain store, and a good twenty at Traid of all Charity stores.
"Done, mate."
"Nice one son."
"I've just got to find some cafe to put it on in now."
"Shove it on in 'ere mate. There's a changing room out there if you can get yourself in it. It's filled with rubbish..."
* *
I hope I'm being incredibly naive here, but how does a place like that make any money at all in that part of town? The day before, in Uxbridge, British Heart Foundation charged me £4.50 for a shitty belt, and I even gave them one of mine in return.
Slight Digression:
The previous day, I'd had a similar morning. GP's at nine for sick notes then a trip to B.H.S. (sorry British Heart Foundation - not the place where you buy a Laura Ahsley dress then drink some tea in the cafe). I needed a belt because I do have a smallish waste, overhung by a new belly that Buster Bloodvessel would have once welcomed to his hotel at Fatty Towers.
Anyway, this bloke in his mid-20s saw an ad' on the door of B.H.S. asking for staff. Now, I don't know your opinion but your average assistant does not get paid.
"Is the manager around? I just saw your advert?"
"Yeah, she's out the back. MAUREEN!?"
Maureen appeared.
"I just saw your advert, and would like to know if I could apply."
"Have you got a CV?"
"Not right now, no."
"Have you done any retail?"
"Yeah, well, I've been a postman for five years, but before that I used to work in pubs and do a bit of catering."
"Well it can get pretty heavy here. Sometimes you'll finish your day and just want to go home and lie in bed."
The age difference was clear.
* *
"So Mr. Smith. You've been in hospital again recently?"
"Yes. It was a different kind of trip this time though."
"So I understand. I'm going to try a questions with you this time, Mr. Smith."
"Please do."
"If I were to say, um, BUS, CUP, TELEPHONE... Can you remember those?"
"Bus, cup, telephone. No problem."
"Good. Now how is your mental arithematic?"
"Try me. I'll try to be quick."
"72 minus 7?"
"75?"
"Not quite."
"65?"
Admittedly, I was rushing but he jotted down every mistake I made in the Maths test. I wanted to offer him a red pen to give me a minus-D, "Must Try Harder."
This was a worry though. I've never been good at Maths, but basic subtractions were really messing me up.
He then made me walk, heel to toe, which didn't work so well either - one broken shoulder and one broken ankle wouldn't have helped.
We sat back down.
"How are they looking after you at the BBC?"
"They've been brilliant. The Culture Show trained up it's staff to learn how to deal with me if I fitted, and now they're doing the same in Arts Development."
"So you feel looked after?"
"I feel spoiled."
"What if they wanted to send you out to shoot something?"
"I'd have someone with me, and if you're worried about my broken arm, I'd use a mono-pod."
"I see."
"Look, I got here today. I've been going out to gigs and seeing friends - what's the difference between that and my meeting contributors?"
"True enough. Well I'll try to type something up today, and see if we can get you back into work on Tuesday."
"Can you not get me back in there today?"
"Sadly not."
"Hey ho. I'll guess I might see you another time."
"No you won't. I'm moving on. They're making me redundant and I've had a better offer. In fact I'm off today."
"Well that's yet another doctor I'll be meeting once and once only. No new deal to me. You doing anything fun with your Gardening Leave?"
"Sorting the loft out..."
"Well, have fun with it. Just please get me back into work."
* *
After the appointment, I hopped on the tube to Marylebone. I still had work to do. This was the only place where I could get hold of a book I needed. They found the book in their reference library - a book from 1975 about football during the Industrial Revolution. Interesting stuff.
"Hey Mary. Just ringing to check in... The book's good, as was the Austerity Olympics, but I guess we'll talk about that on Monday."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I think we're building up some good ideas here, but we do need to know how to develop these things which I can't help much with until they let me back into the the BBC."
"Well,you'll have no time to type things up."
"I will. I'm meant to be at a friend's play in Chesham tonight, but I'm sure she won't mind. I'm also meant to be at two barbecues and a party on Saturday, but I'd rather get this typed up while I have some space on the computer."
"That doesn't sound terribly sociable."
"If I spend a day shopping for crap but work in the evening, what's the difference?"
* *
I rang Mel, just to see what she was up to.
"I'm round your house."
"What have you been up to?"
"Sleeping. Watching telly..."
"Shall I bring a bit of salmon and mussells back with me?"
I took back some bottles of red wine, believing it was her Father's birthday that day. We drank the wine. His birthday isn't until the 13th. I don't think Mel knew what day it was.
She was duly called away by her mates, leaving me to carry on at the computer. I was trying to compile CDs at the same time, and by 7 in the morning, I'd still achieved nothing, and wished I just came out to prove how drunk I was.
"Hi, look, my name's Clayton, I had some really bad insomnia last night - it's already nearly nine, I'm only just at my station and I think I'll have to cancel my appointment..."
"Right... I'm afraid I haven't switched my computer on yet. Can I take your number and call you back?"
Bloody hell. I need to get back to work to avoid skipping around my parents all day, and I'm bodging it up already...
Got a call back as I was going through Finchley Road (getting on for 9.30 now, rail-time fans).
"That's fine. He'll see you at 11.15."
"Oh. Oh good."
So by 10a.m., I was in Westminster with time to kill. All the cafes were filled with builders in yellow shirts and hard hats.
I passed a Coroner's Court surrounded by media vegetations with their cameras at the ready. Poor buggers. I've waited with a crew in a press pit before for a thing with Tom Cruise, and that was one of the most boring evenings of my life. Who died?
It must have been on Horseferry Road that I passed a Charity Shop that was called Charity Shop. The front said, "Beware - Wet Paint," and didn't look too accessible.
Problem was, I hadn't showered and was wearing a smelly blue shirt, which made my belly stick out.
I ambled around a bit more thinking, "Oh bugger it, I'll walk to Victoria and waste a fortune on some crap baggy shirt," before thinking, "No. I won't. That place looked open... I'll be fucked if I'm going to spend the next hour in River Island."
Went back to Charity Shop, stepping over tins of paint. You know those old cliches about swinging cats? ...Well, yeah. Tiny place. Old gruff boy who'd lost all his hair and an elderly Irish woman, just in to talk to the gruff chap about her local Parishioner.
"You alright boy?"
I couldn't get to the shirt rack very easily, but luckily there wasn't much on there anyway.
"So, have you sold much dis week?"
"Not a bloody book."
"I'll have this one mate."
I knew it was baggy enough.
"Two quid?"
Two quid? I'd have paid forty for this at a chain store, and a good twenty at Traid of all Charity stores.
"Done, mate."
"Nice one son."
"I've just got to find some cafe to put it on in now."
"Shove it on in 'ere mate. There's a changing room out there if you can get yourself in it. It's filled with rubbish..."
* *
I hope I'm being incredibly naive here, but how does a place like that make any money at all in that part of town? The day before, in Uxbridge, British Heart Foundation charged me £4.50 for a shitty belt, and I even gave them one of mine in return.
Slight Digression:
The previous day, I'd had a similar morning. GP's at nine for sick notes then a trip to B.H.S. (sorry British Heart Foundation - not the place where you buy a Laura Ahsley dress then drink some tea in the cafe). I needed a belt because I do have a smallish waste, overhung by a new belly that Buster Bloodvessel would have once welcomed to his hotel at Fatty Towers.
Anyway, this bloke in his mid-20s saw an ad' on the door of B.H.S. asking for staff. Now, I don't know your opinion but your average assistant does not get paid.
"Is the manager around? I just saw your advert?"
"Yeah, she's out the back. MAUREEN!?"
Maureen appeared.
"I just saw your advert, and would like to know if I could apply."
"Have you got a CV?"
"Not right now, no."
"Have you done any retail?"
"Yeah, well, I've been a postman for five years, but before that I used to work in pubs and do a bit of catering."
"Well it can get pretty heavy here. Sometimes you'll finish your day and just want to go home and lie in bed."
The age difference was clear.
* *
"So Mr. Smith. You've been in hospital again recently?"
"Yes. It was a different kind of trip this time though."
"So I understand. I'm going to try a questions with you this time, Mr. Smith."
"Please do."
"If I were to say, um, BUS, CUP, TELEPHONE... Can you remember those?"
"Bus, cup, telephone. No problem."
"Good. Now how is your mental arithematic?"
"Try me. I'll try to be quick."
"72 minus 7?"
"75?"
"Not quite."
"65?"
Admittedly, I was rushing but he jotted down every mistake I made in the Maths test. I wanted to offer him a red pen to give me a minus-D, "Must Try Harder."
This was a worry though. I've never been good at Maths, but basic subtractions were really messing me up.
He then made me walk, heel to toe, which didn't work so well either - one broken shoulder and one broken ankle wouldn't have helped.
We sat back down.
"How are they looking after you at the BBC?"
"They've been brilliant. The Culture Show trained up it's staff to learn how to deal with me if I fitted, and now they're doing the same in Arts Development."
"So you feel looked after?"
"I feel spoiled."
"What if they wanted to send you out to shoot something?"
"I'd have someone with me, and if you're worried about my broken arm, I'd use a mono-pod."
"I see."
"Look, I got here today. I've been going out to gigs and seeing friends - what's the difference between that and my meeting contributors?"
"True enough. Well I'll try to type something up today, and see if we can get you back into work on Tuesday."
"Can you not get me back in there today?"
"Sadly not."
"Hey ho. I'll guess I might see you another time."
"No you won't. I'm moving on. They're making me redundant and I've had a better offer. In fact I'm off today."
"Well that's yet another doctor I'll be meeting once and once only. No new deal to me. You doing anything fun with your Gardening Leave?"
"Sorting the loft out..."
"Well, have fun with it. Just please get me back into work."
* *
After the appointment, I hopped on the tube to Marylebone. I still had work to do. This was the only place where I could get hold of a book I needed. They found the book in their reference library - a book from 1975 about football during the Industrial Revolution. Interesting stuff.
"Hey Mary. Just ringing to check in... The book's good, as was the Austerity Olympics, but I guess we'll talk about that on Monday."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I think we're building up some good ideas here, but we do need to know how to develop these things which I can't help much with until they let me back into the the BBC."
"Well,you'll have no time to type things up."
"I will. I'm meant to be at a friend's play in Chesham tonight, but I'm sure she won't mind. I'm also meant to be at two barbecues and a party on Saturday, but I'd rather get this typed up while I have some space on the computer."
"That doesn't sound terribly sociable."
"If I spend a day shopping for crap but work in the evening, what's the difference?"
* *
I rang Mel, just to see what she was up to.
"I'm round your house."
"What have you been up to?"
"Sleeping. Watching telly..."
"Shall I bring a bit of salmon and mussells back with me?"
I took back some bottles of red wine, believing it was her Father's birthday that day. We drank the wine. His birthday isn't until the 13th. I don't think Mel knew what day it was.
She was duly called away by her mates, leaving me to carry on at the computer. I was trying to compile CDs at the same time, and by 7 in the morning, I'd still achieved nothing, and wished I just came out to prove how drunk I was.
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